


The Wounded Heart

by Aeshna etonensis (GMWWemyss)



Series: Englishmen (and an Irishman) Abroad: Five Men in the Same Boat. To Say Nothing of the Dog.... [4]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Coming Out, Cricket, Family Dynamics, Gen, M/M, TMH tour, TMS, Touring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMWWemyss/pseuds/Aeshna%20etonensis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of swimming rivers and lingering in gardens and orchards; of peaches and birthmarks. And of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Orchard: 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is an old song, and there is the work of Saʿdī: that is all on earth we know, or need know.

_‘“Bialystok and Blooo-ooom, Bialystok and Blooo-ooom…”.’_

Niall and Harry simply glared at Louis, who was in no wise daunted.

‘And I’m surprised we’ve not being accused of stealin’ _t’at,_ ’ said Niall. ‘T’ey’re maybe waitin’ for t’e actual full video to drop. T’e teasers alone have damage done enough….’

Louis’ grin was now a picture of malign glee: mere mischief simply wasn’t in it. ‘Oh, do tell, darling! Who have we offended _today?_ ’

They all ignored Zayn’s muttered, ‘“Whom”’ by way of correction. Even Zayn was attending to Niall: they did not trust anyone else – Modest or immodest – to monitor and honestly to give them the news, and the trends on social media – or ‘antisocial’ media, as Niall often called it after a particularly vexing day of trawling through it.

‘Well…. Speakin’ of _T’e Producers,_ “Marcel” here is bein’ called an unwitting act of anti-Semitism….’

Harry, who was as conscientious as even Ed Miliband could desire, winced; as did Zayn, who not only loathed prejudice perhaps even more than did Harry, but knew that if _that_ meme took hold, he’d be accused of being the prime mover in fomenting it.

‘Louis and I are not catching it hot, we’re not – as yet. But – well.’

Liam and Zayn looked uneasily at one another.

Niall emanated sympathy. ‘It’s Stonewall wants to speak wit’ you, Liam, about stereotypin’. And t’ey’ll likely want speech of Zayn as well, only t’at t’e feminists are makin’ t’e runnin’ just now, and why could we not give an _actress_ a part, but.’

‘But … _we,_ ’ said Liam, worriedly. ‘I mean, we _can_ make those jokes.’

‘Well, y’ can and y’ cannot. _We_ know y’ _can,_ t’at t’e two of you are _allowed,_ but – _t’ey_ don’t know t’at.’

‘Because we’re not out.’ Zayn’s voice was flat, and his statement, not a question.

Niall shrugged, helplessly.

‘How bad is it?’ Harry really didn’t sound as if he were eager for the answer.

‘T’e public and t’e fans is not carin’, or noticin’, only but t’e ones already have you and Lou, and Liam and Z, sussed, and _t’ey’re_ feckin’ delighted. T’e pundits – t’ey don’t like us any more t’an t’ey did, but, t’ey don’t like us any _less_. Wit’ t’em, we’re always goin’ to rank somewhere between Tsarnaev on t’e cover of _Rollin’ Stone_ and t’at Zimmerman fella, whatever.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Liam. ‘I can tweet an apology –’

‘No.’ That the others could manage that not only in unison, but in harmony (a diminished sixth, to be precise), had become so customary that Liam didn’t even remark it.

‘Y’ don’t want to do t’at,’ said Niall. ‘Y’ oughtn’t to be required to do, _and_ all t’e Liam Girls –’

‘– And _Ziam_ Girls –’

‘– _All_ the fans,’ added Louis –

‘– T’row fits when y’ apologise.’

Liam simply looked at Niall, puzzled, his head to one side.

‘Chrisht! T’ey’re not _British,_ t’ese wans! T’ey don’t know t’at when an Englishman’s foot is stepped on, _he_ apologises; when he walks inta a bollard, _he_ apologises to t’e bollard; when – Jaysus, t’ey don’t know t’at t’e only times an Englishman _doesn’t_ apologise is when England beat Australia in t’e Ashes; when he tuts loudly at a queue-jumper; and when he invades and occupies Ireland –’

Zayn cleared his throat.

‘– When he colonises anot’er country for a few centuries! Don’t you be apologisin’, at all, Liam Payne, it only makes it worse, keeps t’e story alive, and t’en t’ey, t’e Liam Girls, all go online and t’ink t’ey’re _defendin’_ you. Leave it, but.

‘Also, Zayn, ah. Well. Whiles y’ were … out … your da rang up, here, to t’e room, when he could not reach your mobile.’

Harry and Louis exchanged an uneasy look.

When the spotlight was on him, Liam was always conciliatory: upon occasion, too much so. When it glared unpleasantly on the others – and especially when, upon Zayn – he was leonine. He rose.

‘Zayn, I’d like to see you for a few moments. My room. Before you ring your father back.’

There was no gainsaying Liam in that mood. Zayn merely nodded, and followed him out.

The others exhaled.

‘Still “Daddy Direction”, t’at lad,’ said Niall. ‘Jaysus, we’ll be in our sixties and he’ll yet go on like t’at.’

‘I wonder,’ said Harry, with more even than his customary slowness. ‘Do you think Z ever calls Liam, “Daddy”?’

Louis’ face lit up with unholy excitement. ‘Oh! In bed? Surely he must! And I’ll wager there’s _spanking,_ sometimes!’

_‘Jaysus….’_

‘Well, we’ve all seen the snaps of Our Mr Payne – _Pain!_ Ha! – spanking the not-at-all-missed Danielle, and then there was the onesies-and-fingerpaint video….’

‘D’y’ want me to call _you,_ “Daddy”?’ Harry sounded like he was staunchly opposed to the idea.

Louis tossed his head. ‘Fuck you ever so for that reminder of our age difference, love. _No._ ’

‘Good, because I wasn’t going to do.’

‘ _Good._ Niall – Niall?’

‘Kitchenette,’ smirked Harry.

‘Horan, you little bugger, you can _not_ be hungry!’

‘I can be and I am! And I’d much rat’er be lookin’ out a bag of crisps t’an sittin’ t’rough t’e latest of t’e two of you’s sequels t’ _La Cage!_ ’

‘Oh, shift your arse back in here, you bottomless bog-trotting pit! We need to work out the vocals for a new version of “Sweet Georgia Brown”, we can jape that, only it’s “Georgia _Rose_ ” now – and, oh, when we do “She’s Not Afraid,” we can make Liam sing, “When I want more, _‘she’_ is _in_ my back door” –’

‘Not. Funny. Tommo.’ The door swung to behind the returning Liam with the sound of a vault shutting.

‘Liam….’

‘You really aren’t. Not funny at all.’ It had been some time since they’d seen Liam – so commonly equable – so near to explosion: and they could all well recall that his explosions, if rare, tended to be thermonuclear, let alone ballistic.

‘Liam –’

‘No, Harry. Loyalty’s fine, I know you love him; but I have mine, too. Loyalty. And I expect _some_ loyalty from all of you, I mean, not the same sort, but, yeah – unless you think Zayn and I don’t deserve it or haven’t given it?’

‘Liam, you know my banter, my humour – well, maybe it _is_ a bit near the knuckle, sometimes, but –’

‘It’s not banter, Lou. It’s not humour, either. Because, it? It. Is. Not. _Funny._ ’

‘Oi –’

‘Do _not_ press me just now. Right now, Zayn is on the phone with his dad –’

The door opened and shut behind them.

‘I’m not now,’ said Zayn. ‘What in buggery is the problem _here,_ now? Niall’s hiding in the kitchen, Harry’s bristling like a cat, and the two of you are at each other’s throats. That’s sharn, that is. Care to explain?’

‘Your boyfriend,’ said Louis, rather nastily, ‘is defending your poor, outraged, maidenly honour. _Georgia_ _._ ’

‘LOUIS.’ When Harry used that tone, Louis was well aware he was in for a rocket (Harry could be as explosively angry as could Liam) and that the balloon had well and truly gone up.

Liam, who, blind to Harry’s correction, had just been returning to his usual colour, went – even as he _saw_ – red, and the veins in his neck and head engorged. Zayn hastily shoved aside the fact that he found that sight – evocative as it was of other circumstances entirely, upon which Liam was all fire and sweat and corded, straining muscles – he put aside that the sight was _extremely_ hot, and placed a restraining hand on Liam’s momently-tightening shoulder.

‘Liam knows I can defend myself,’ said he, lazily. ‘If I want defending.’

‘The problem with you, Louis,’ said Liam, tightly, ‘is, in –’ he counted hastily on his fingers – ‘in _eight_ words, that there are times you make it impossible to forget that … you’re from the same town as Jeremy _Clarkson_.’

‘Liam,’ said Zayn, still pacifically. ‘Sometimes Lou gets a bit pricey, and comes the direct sergeant, yeah? But … love, it’s your drive, and your talent, and your dedication, and your experience keeps us going, yes. _But_ –’

‘ _But,_ ’ said Niall, entering with a peace offering from the kitchen (cheese and pickle on wholemeal bread, although the Americans didn’t stock Hovis to save their _lives,_ it was chronic), ‘it was T’e Tommo’s spark that lit t’e fire under us and we took off to be startin’ wit’, it was.’

Liam and Louis looked at each other for an interminable moment, then smiled.

‘Oh, come here, you.’ Only Louis could have smirked and rolled his eyes in such theatrical exasperation even as he reached out for a hug.

Harry and Zayn stepped in, then. If there was to be _private,_ offstage hugging, by God, it wasn’t going to be between their boyfriends. That, finally, made Louis and Liam snigger, as they clasped hands.

‘And _as_ t’e man t’at kept t’e peace,’ said Niall, ‘I sentence t’e two of you accordin’. First round next time’s on Tommo; second’s on Liam. And t’e t’ird is on Zayn, it is.’

‘Me? What did _I_ do?’

‘Accused me of hidin’ in t’e kitchen when it was makin’ t’e sarnies of peace I was.’

‘Sounds fair to me,’ grinned Harry. ‘And as _my_ contribution to the restoration of boyband harmony, _I’ll_ get up – from a really comfy chair, mind you – and grab a few tins, yah?’

Niall slapped his forehead, dramatically. ‘Chrisht, I forgot t’e beer, I _knew_ t’ere was somet’in’ we was wantin’.’

‘They’ll strip you of your citizenship for that,’ said Harry, gravely. ‘What sort of Irishman forgets the booze?’

‘Feck,’ grinned Niall, ‘ _aff._ ’

________________________

Later that night – rather considerably later – just as a sated Zayn was hoping to drift into dreams without facing the memory of the friction of the day, Liam, breath finally caught, spoke. He always was, Zayn reflected with fond annoyance, today’s Tom Sawyer, was Liam.

‘So, love. Your dad.’

‘They’re all well. Heatwave’s still on, but it’s not as bad in Bradford as elsewhere: me mum’s already told your parents and Anne and Gemma they can stop at our place if things get worse in the West. Australia collapsed at Lord’s; no news on Wills-and-Kate’s Royal Baby yet. G’night, love.’

Liam wasn’t having it: not even so far as to pretend it had been a good try. ‘Love….’

‘Mm?’

‘You spoke with your dad. Then you came back and – said what you said.’ Liam would be the first to assert that he wasn’t clever (which Zayn thought at once humble, and mistaken, of him), but he assuredly noticed things, particularly to do with Zayn: noticed them rather uncomfortably sharply, really, sometimes. ‘I mean: “pricey”? “Coming the direct sergeant”? I can hear your dad in that.’

Zayn sighed. ‘Yeah. Bugger it.’

‘He’s not happy?’

‘His only son’s in a boyband, in a gay relationship, in an increasingly transparent closet, and, now, in drag. Yeah, he’s ecstatic and supportive.’

‘Oh, love….’

‘I wouldn’t mind so much if he was worried about my soul. Or – _me._ But it’s not what I do or don’t do; it’s what’s _known_. It’s only about _his_ … it’s all about his fucking _izzat._

‘So. Sorry you had to hear his turns of phrase in my voice, earlier. Just as well you didn’t hear what _I_ said.’

‘Z….’

‘’S all right. Let’s get some sleep, yeah? I was knackered _before_ you pounded me into the duvet.’

‘Love.’

Zayn rolled over. He couldn’t bear to be face to face with Liam just now. ‘I told him … my own father. I. I told him it was my life, this was my job, it was my money from this job put his current roof over his head, and he could give over acting like an illiterate Mirpuri farmer who’s never seen a telly. Then he started in about dancing-boys and whores, and I rang off before words like _badla_ and _dushmani_ started being bandied about.’

Liam insisted he wasn’t clever, but Zayn knew better: Liam always knew when to stop talking – even if it _were_ commonly about half an hour after Zayn hoped he might do – and start simply holding him.

________________________


	2. The Orchard: 2

Liam gave himself no credit for being clever – indeed, for being anything better than thick – but he knew this much: that there were no perfect marriages; and that even so, his parents’ marriage, and that of Zayn’s parents, was a stable thing when gauged against the broken parental marriages that were all that Harry and Louis and Niall had known.

Zayn’s mum knew that as well; and had she not done, she should have learnt it in the conversation, over tea, which she and her husband had after Zayn had rung back – and rung quite swiftly off.

‘He does not listen.’ Yaser was aggrieved; affronted. ‘Trish, he does not listen. He does not listen because he has already decided my motives for speaking.’

‘Dear…. Don’t all fathers and all sons go through this? All mums and all daughters do, I think.’

‘Yes, of course. But this is different, because of who he is, who he has become. I try to warn him, and he hears only threats. Do I say to him that _I_ will start a feud – with my own son! – and avenge myself? Of course not: I warn him that there are those – none, I hope, in our extended family – who will do. And somehow it is I who threatens? He gets tattoos. Do I tell him, My son, these are _haram,_ you are no son of mine? Of course not. But these are not only tattoos. Am I the man we read of in the _Telegraph,_ who argued he could not be deported to Iraq because, while he has been here in Britain, he was tattooed, and now deserves asylum because Iraqis would kill him for that – sin? No. But my son has not only tattoos: he has a Buddhist symbol on his wrist and a half-clad woman on his arm! Is this safe? Is this wise?’

‘I know, dear. But he is old enough to make his own decisions.’

‘Yes: _his_ – however unwise. I agree. I do. But now he is making decisions more permanent than a tattoo. Tattoos can be erased. And he refuses to listen when I tell him that he is not the only person affected by his decisions. He shuts his ears, and assumes – _assumes_ – that I am banging on about _my_ honour and the family’s repute. He –’

‘But surely the girls –’

‘He is one of the three or so most prominent – most famous, most recognised – of British Pakistanis. And one of the others is a Church of England bishop! I’d feel less worried if Zayn were that; or a boxer. But Liam is a boxer, and that would not stop a bullet, even so. I love that lad, of course I do – if, of course, not as much as I love our son – and just now, perhaps, I like him rather better. Well, what of _him,_ and _his_ safety? And what of our girls? Zayn is our only son; he is not our only child. He is a target, and with every decision he makes, he makes himself a bigger target; and that target also is painted, more and more, upon you and our daughters. For myself, I don’t care; but he is being selfish if he does not realise that you and his sisters are also targets now.

‘And even at its best…. He is now one of the most famous of men, in the world’s biggest band, perhaps. And there are countries he shall never be able to play, from Malaysia to Morocco. And indeed the … the State of Israel, I think: he is reviled, distrusted, by millions simply because of who he is, even before all the rest of this. And perhaps he never wishes to make the _hajj_ – although he certainly cannot say now he cannot afford it – and to be _mustati;_ but if he wished to do, he is in a fair way of making it impossible for himself. And he does not wish, perhaps, ever to visit the graves of his forefathers and their ancestral places; but if he changes his mind, is it not too late? If that is his decision, that is his decision: but he is also acting to make it difficult, if not impossible, that his sisters make _their_ own decisions. And for trying to tell him this, it is I who am at fault?

‘Imagine that, because of what the lads say and do on the stage and as a band, Liam – and his sisters – could never again safely enter Wolverhampton; or Louis and _his_ sisters might never go to Belgium to see their old gran’s or great-gran’s people; that Anne and Gemma as well as Harry were barred forever from Holmes Chapel, or Niall told it was well he was a Derby County supporter, for he must make his home in England now and never return to Ireland – or go to Rome to meet the Pope. It is no different.’

‘I do see that, dear. But Zayn is a young man who’s simply trying to have a private life, in very trying – and public – circumstances.’

‘To which I do not object. Do I? No. I do not object. I tolerate, I extend my love; I _try_ to extend my protection and my advice, as a father. What he _will_ not recognise is that, being who he is: which is what gives him that luxury and what brought him to meet Liam at all: _he_ can have a private life only if he keeps it _private._ And I am tired of being the messenger who is shot at for the message.’

________________________

One thing in favour of time zones was that one may listen to TMS and still have an American afternoon free for mucking about before a show. Which, naturally, in an Ashes summer, was precisely what the lads, touring as they were with Aussie openers, did. Sound-check was even more chaotic than usual, with innovative sledging: whilst Five Seconds of Summer were doing _their_ sound-check, the lads of One Direction, with their preternatural talent for mimicry and utter cheek, did their own, barracking TMS from the prompt side: Harry at his most posh doing an excellent Blowers, Liam getting, if at first reluctantly, caught up in it as a creditable Tuffers, Niall – who could do almost any voice – taking off Aggers, and Louis being all too believable as Geoffrey Boycott. (Zayn simply stood aside and cackled, when not making trumpeting noises, acting as the Barmy Army, and providing pigeon and crowd noises.)

‘“Oh, dear, and that’s tossed up full….”’

‘“Aye, my mum could ha’ driven that for six with her old broom.”’

‘“I really don’t know what the Baggy Greens are thinking, not taking the new ball.”’

(Rude gestures from stage.)

‘“They do seem to be conferring now. I don’t know what they can possibly hope to accomplish, unless they have simply accepted Fate and are asking that Twelfth Man bring out sherry when it’s drinks – although I must say, a decent year of Yquem should be a far better choice to go with this really quite excellent cake … and, do I? Yes, I believe I do see a few late pigeons winging their way above the pitch towards us in the commentary box, quite possibly hoping for a crumb or two of this really quite capital Battenberg….”’

‘“Oh, Geoffrey only drinks Chablis.”’

‘“Now, Jon-a-than, that were a lie, when I were lad, Fred Trueman, he said to me, Any cricketer who can’t do his work on a steady diet o’ Theakston and pies –”’

‘“Captain Clarke certainly seems to be in want of a pint –”’

(Sledging from the opening act.)

‘“In Bridgetown – ’94, was it? I think it was – poor old Athers encountered Banks lager and a really spicy dinner together for the first time – just a moment: it’s Ashton Agar now coming in to bowl: and it’s pushed away to leg, oh, there’s just a chance there – no. Dropped again; Australia –”’

‘“Mrs Boycott could ha’caught that in her pinny –”’

It was at that point they were, to 5SOS’ undisguised relief, forcibly removed to the greenroom.

________________________

The _disadvantage_ to sledging one’s Aussie openers during _their_ sound-check in an Ashes summer was that – if you weren’t pampered pop princes, and all five of the lads had made a pact never to become _that_ – they were free to retaliate in kind during yours.

Obviously, 5SOS weren’t barking: they Did Not Mention The Cricket. But they sledged all the same. Niall and Zayn bore up fairly well under the ‘Veronica’ japes – ‘that’s a proper Catholic name for a Nice Catholic Girl, eh, Horan?’ – but of course it was Liam, who could commonly be trusted to rise to the fly like an incautious trout (and, unlike Louis or indeed Harry, not turn into a blood-crazed shark in response to a bit of banter: the Australian lads hadn’t witnessed or heard of the preceding night’s set-to), who caught it hottest, even or particularly when the sledging was ostensibly directed towards Zayn.

‘Fifth, Malik! First out of you lot, but _fifth_ overall!’

The _Attitude_ list of the world’s sexiest men had always been destined to result in banter.

‘What’d you expect, though, mate? It’s _Attitude…._ ’

Before Louis could decide that that was a slur – _Attitude_ being, after all, the UK’s leading _gay_ magazine – and wax waspish, Luke added, ‘Yeah, the top five were always all going to be bloody _Poms,_ eh? So, Payne, d’you think Prince Harry deserves to be above Zayn –’ sniggers all ’round – ‘in the list? Becks? Tom Daley?’

‘We know _Superman’s_ off limits with you!’

‘No, he’s been crying into his Batman shirt, though, hasn’t he?’

Liam put up two fingers. ‘Ask me when any of _you_ lot make the list, yeah? And if they _knew_ Zayn as more than a pretty face –’

(General hilarity.)

‘“Face”? Yeah, because the high heels did nothing for you!’

(Universal falling about.)

Zayn grinned, evilly. ‘Yeah, but I could _bat_ better, _in_ heels, than the whole Aussie order did. All out for 128, wasn’t it?’

‘Oooooh. You Poms and your Irish ringer want to prove that? We can find a pitch, limited overs?’

Liam looked at them steadily. ‘Twenty overs. We’ll play for a cask of real ale, if we can find any in this bleeding country.’

‘You’re on, mate.’

________________________

‘WHAT were you _thinking,_ Liam?’

‘Louis –’

‘I hope you _can_ bat a ton and a bit in heels, Zayn, because – fuck me, at least if it was footie, Haz’d be the only dead weight we’d be carting about –’

‘Oi!’

‘Psh, you know it’s true, love. There are _five_ of us. There’s _four_ of them. Either they’ll insist we leave our best man out – if we _have_ one – or they’ll bring in some bugger from their security or handlers who was once capped for Australia! We’ll be slaughtered – worse, we’ll be _embarrassed_ –’

As Louis settled into his rant, Liam looked severely at Zayn and Niall. (Harry’s attention was past hoping for: he had settled into a pose of alert and assiduous attention to Louis and was already asleep with his eyes open.) ‘You were telling us all, last night, about how valuable Tommo’s insane competitiveness was?’

Niall shrugged. ‘Eh, we’ve t’e fift’ sexiest man in t’e world. He can always bowl a maiden over.’

The much-tried Liam carefully closed his mouth, swallowed his words, and put his head in his hands.

Niall grinned. At least Liam was giving the joke the precise respect it deserved.

________________________


	3. The Orchard: 3

‘Nev-er,’ said Niall. ‘It is _never_ I t’ought I’d be so happy at t’e birt’ of a Protestant prince t’ t’e British Royals.’

They were, as ever, reliant upon Niall for the unfiltered truth of The Numbers, and of the public response.

‘It’s not made too great inroads t’ our sales, but. And what it has done, it’s distracted a deal of comment we’d be takin’.’

Zayn looked away. He had a sour feeling in his tum about this.

‘Now, be said by me,’ pled Niall. ‘’Tis not your fault at all, it isn’t, at all. Corden and Winston is emailin’ every hour to apologise.’

‘How bad?’ Liam was quite proud that he’d kept his voice flat.

‘Well, it _isn’t_ …. Wee Prince Gary –’ Niall had insisted from the first that if the wee new Cambridge were to be a lad, he’d call it after its great-uncle on Kate’s side, he would – ‘has distracted a few from goin’ on about it, and t’at’s a good t’ing.

‘What it is … it’s t’is. Our fans is buyin’ t’e single fine. We’re not seein’ t’e punters not reach in t’eir pockets, at all. All it is, we’re not havin’ quite as much o’ t’e shite as’d be talked if t’ere wasn’t distractions, and it’s not complainin’ of t’at t’at _I_ am at all, whatever.

‘What y’ want t’ understand…. Well. In t’e Republic and t’e UK, t’ere’s more folk is fans o’ us t’an is outright _non-_ fans. But if every soul in Ireland and each person in t’e UK was fans, t’ey’d hardly show against t’e numbers of – eit’er – t’em who love us _or_ t’em who hate us, who _aren’t_ British or Irish, y’ see. And t’e overseas fans and non-fans – because t’ere _are_ people, if y’ credit it, who’re indifferent t’ us or never heard of us – t’e overseas lot. Well. If t’ey speak English, even, it’s American t’ey speak, even t’e Dutch or t’e French or t’e Greeks, if t’ey can af-ford telly and internet in Greece t’ese days, and – well, t’ey don’t understand. It’s American culture t’ey know, not yours nor mine.

‘ _Aladdin_ at t’e Lyceum in Crewe; _Dick Whittington_ at t’e Wolverhampton Grand; _Sleepin’ Beauty_ at t’e Alhambra in Bradford; _Robin Hood_ at the Civic in Donny; _Peter Pan_ at t’e Op’ra House in Cork or _Snow White_ at t’e Dublin Tivoli or _Jack and t’e Beanstalk_ at t’e Gaiety t’ere…. And sure our wee don could go on for hours, could y’ not, my Zayn, tellin’ o’ mystery plays and Restoration drama. And t’e schools plays, where Mike must be Juliet to Pat’s Romeo, or Manders Minor, Kate, to Porteous Major as Henry t’e Fift’ for t’e Fift’ Form Shakespeare of a year. T’ey don’t have t’ese. T’ey don’t know t’ere’s school plays played in schools for boys, where all t’e roles is played _by_ boys, and in girls’ schools also where kings and bishops is played by girls because t’ere’s none else to play t’em. T’ey don’t _have_ panto overseas. _We_ put a man has won t’ree Olivier Awards in drag as Widow Twankey, and all we say is, after, He makes a brilliant panto dame, and, Wasn’t it sportin’ of him to take it on; _t’ey,_ overseas, see a lad in drag for a video and t’ey’re aff t’ write papers on queer t’eory.

‘So. T’ere’s fans is upset by it. T’ere’s fans t’ink we was bullied into it. T’ere’s fans – and some _are_ ex-fans, t’ere’s no blinkin’ it, now – calling us all – all – poofs. And some of t’e ones overseas who support us most _and_ have you four sussed, is t’e most dismayed. Y’ see, you’ve been forced into it by t’e Evil Suits o’ Management, and made t’ participate in your own oppression, y’ have. And t’en t’ere’s t’e ones who’re postin’ how t’eir da or t’eir brot’er or t’eir best-friend-who’s-a- _boy_ is in a state o’ gay panic over it because he t’ought Zayn was hot until he was told it was Zayn. If ever we want a new name as a band, it’ll be “Gay-Panic! at the Disco”, I’m thinkin’. Sure, and we’re sexist, and we’re anti-gay, and we’re transphobic as well, t’ey’re concludin’. Mockin’ trans people and stereotypical gays, we are, y’ see.’

‘I,’ said Liam, through teeth that were blatantly Not Clenched By Dint Only of Admirable Willpower, ‘found playing Leeroy a bit liberating, actually.’

‘No,’ said Niall, ‘t’at’s false consciousness, t’at is, y’ see. You’re such a victim of oppression you’ve become self-hatin’. Ask any armchair psychiatrist on Tumbler. Did y’ t’ink we was mockin’ t’e way t’ey’ve tried to market us as commodities and objectify us and choreograph us – some hopes o’ _t’at:_ you may as well pin jam to a wall – and cannot even get our names right? Catch yourself on: we’re too t’ick and too much a band of puppets t’ know what we’re about. No: _t’ey_ know better, t’e fans; we only _t’ought_ we was doin’ t’at.

‘What we was doin’, truly, all unknowin’, was bein’ anti-Semitic – oh: Harry, t’ere’s yet people ringing to ask us, Do you and I want to star in t’e West End in _T’e Producers_ – and anti-American, and anti-transpersons and antigay. Tommo, _you_ are antigay, because you made a show of checkin’ out Veronica’s arse, and self-hatin’, because you made a show of checkin’ out Veronica’s arse and because Jonny’s a sleaze and you went so over t’e top you were puttin’ yourself in a closet. Haz, you’re antigay, because you made a show of checkin’ out Veronica’s arse, and self-hatin’, because you made a show of checkin’ out Veronica’s arse, and because Marcel not only reads as an anti-Semitic caricature of a nebbish, but because he codes as gay.

He turned to Zayn and Liam. ‘I don’t t’ink it even wants sayin’ what t’e two of _you_ are guilty of, and why. Oh, and _I’m_ anti-fat, and sexist, and, by playin’ a fat man, underminin’ t’e body-images of t’ousands who’ll now go on t’ be anorexic or bulimic, _and_ at t’e same time, if I go on eatin’ t’e way I do I’ll look like Harvey before I’m t’irty, _and_ Harvey is clearly a jab at Weinstein, so I hate Jews, as well. After all, look at who I’m in a band wit’ – and don’t you be t’inking _t’at_ hasn’t been alluded to.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Oh, cheer up, Tommo. We’re five eejits who didn’t know what we was doin’, after all, and we’re all controlled by Evil Management: just y’ ask t’e fans, who’ll tell you. Only but Zayn, because _he_ clearly looked at Veronica like he looks in a mirror, and t’ought t’e same t’ing bot’ times: “Yeah, I’d hit t’at”. He’s a narcissist, but. All t’e fans say so, so it must be true.

‘Oh, and t’ere’s t’is. Ignore any comments about “One Direction’s unexpected new CD”.’

Liam frowned. ‘It’s a single.’

‘T’e _song_ is. When t’ey say “CD”, t’ey don’t mean, “compact disc”.’

Liam flushed – from anger, not from having got hold of the wrong end of the stick at first.

‘I know,’ said Niall, soothingly. ‘We want to send a hamper to Wills and Kate. And to t’e England and Australia Test XIs. We’d be dealin’ wit’ worse, but for t’em and t’eir taking t’e oxygen out of t’e news.’

________________________

There are, on tour, the ‘soundchecks’ that are actually sample or proleptic shows, to which fortunate fans, with special tickets clutched in sweating hands, are admitted, and then there are the real thing, periods of serious-minded technical adjustment. Even the latter, when the tour is headlined by Five Self-Proclaimed Idiots and opened by the very laddish lads of 5SOS, have their less-serious moments.

Prevailing – as headliners can prevail – upon the techs to play a medley (of ‘Soul Limbo’, some DLM, and Roy Harper’s ‘When An Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease’) when 5SOS were starting their soundcheck, was hardly a surprising move on (inevitably) Louis’ part. But Liam could wish Louis had reflected first upon the nature and consequences of invoking Nemesis, when 5SOS naturally – and fair play to them – got their own back, not meaning anything cruel by it. Nevertheless, neither ‘Lola’ nor ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ were, he thought, terribly amusing, although Zayn bore it with a smile.

It was only when, opening, 5SOS larkily warned the crowd not to expect choreography from _them,_ because ‘We, unlike 1D, can’t afford Leeroy’, that the slow fuse in Liam burnt its way to the detonative powder.

He wasn’t angry with the lads: they were simply larking about. He wasn’t precisely angry with the fans. He wasn’t, in fact, angry, as such, at all.

What had sparked in him, instead, was determination, if you like, and drive: in fact, that competitiveness that he had previously castigated in Tommo and in which he could have given not only Louis, but the others as well, points.

What the world commonly saw in him, nowadays, even at his (comparative) wildest, was steadiness and steadfastness, candour, openness, staunchness, and a level head: all the traditional British virtues of the very stodgiest order, in a sporty, athletic youth with mild eyes and a frank countenance: manly but thick. Even three in four of his bandmates, at least, and sometimes (he suspected) the fourth, if only briefly, could forget the truth and think only that partial truth. Even Niall, who saw everything; even Harry, who missed nothing.

What they sometimes forgot, with the rest of the world – what Liam was content should _be_ forgot – was the fuller and broader truth. He’d been a dreamy and oft-friendless lad, willowy with growth and absorbed by music, and thus in looks and the perception of others, a trifle emo, and, as they equated it, therefore a trifle effeminate. Girls had turned him down, time and again. His birthday parties had hardly been attended. And, soon enough and to the latter hour, he’d been bullied.

What was forgotten the more was how he had responded. He’d refused to run from the bullying or the casual cruelty or the rejection; he’d run, instead, for his school, with all the loneliness of the long-distance runner, and had just missed being selected to run for his country as an Olympian. He’d accepted that near-miss, and, no longer being required to remain a whippet, had become a boxer – and even so had not then sought out his former tormentors and put them on the canvas. He’d gone in for the X-Factor, with his emo haircut and his emo integument, been mocked and doubted, very nearly made it, been sent home – and then gone back and done it again, and won through. He’d had his heart broken a thousand times, and he’d never so much as contemplated not wearing it on his sleeve, like the favour and charge and badge it was. He’d shouldered responsibility because he couldn’t not, for all that others might have had a better claim or been content not to ask him to put his own claims forward; shouldered it because, at the end of the day, he could not _not_ be in control. Purported fans belittled him, suggested he shut up, urged him to leave the group, sought to leave him out of snaps and photos-with-their-idols; his reaction was to work the harder.

No, Liam was not possessed of an ‘insane competitiveness’. He was driven by a cold, sane insistence upon absolute perfection, taken to pathological lengths.

‘I want everyone in the nets before breakfast.’

Louis simply stared at him.

‘After Harry and I have our run,’ explained Liam, placatingly. ‘Not before, oh, 7.0.’

Niall looked at Liam, then at Zayn, then at Liam again.

‘All right. Harry and Niall, at least?’

‘I’ll be up anyway,’ shrugged Harry. ‘For the run.’

‘I’ll _not,_ ’ said Zayn, flatly.

‘Ah, I may as well,’ said Niall. They all knew that Louis shouldn’t so much as dignify the suggestion with a verbal response.

What Louis did say was, in a stage-whisper that was quite as universally audible as he meant it to be, ‘He thinks he’s Andy Flower. Tragic, really. _I_ say we insist on DRS and let the umpires give us the match with poor decisions.’

The next morning – Louis making a show of sleeping in; Zayn as impossible to wake (well, Liam had ways, but they were hardly appropriate just then) as ever – saw a yawning Niall trailing reluctantly after the already-did-two-miles Liam and Harry, wishing he could manage to go back on his promise. Liam was carrying bats and balls without seeming to notice it; naturally, there weren’t nets as such where they were, but a public park with a baseball field and its batting cage had been pressed into service. Their security, omnipresent and skilled in fading into unnoticeability so far as the lads themselves were concerned, maintained a loose perimeter, although Harry had joked he was putting Paul at slip.

‘Next time,’ said Liam, ‘you can bring your guitar, Niall, and sing something by DLM as I get Haz into shape.’

‘’Zat why you brought me?’ Harry wore a half-smile as he spoke. ‘I’m crap and want the most work?’

‘Of course not,’ said Liam, with fond politeness that deceived precisely none of them. ‘Shall we work on your bowling first, or your batting?’

‘Or,’ said Niall, rooting about in a sack of croissants like a pig in Perigord in a good year for truffles, ‘y’ can tell him t’e real reason you want _him_ here in particular. As if you couldn’t have forced Louis and Zayn t’ be here if you’d but made an effort.’

Harry was never one to resist the obvious jest. ‘Howzat?’

Liam sighed. ‘I want to write a letter.’

‘Mm?’

‘To Zayn’s dad.’

Harry dropped the ball from nerveless hands. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no, I am not getting in the middle –’

‘I know what I want to say, Harry. I – look, you’ll not need to do anything bar correct my spelling and grammar.’

Harry sighed. ‘Liam….’

‘Zayn’s convinced I have a learning disability, maybe dyslexia.’

‘Well, what did they say when you were at school?’

‘They never bothered. I mean, it’s not as if they tested me for it or anything –’

‘Bugger. I went to a comp, Liam, they test for that sort of thing, it’s not as if you were in a comp and I was at King’s, let alone Rugby or Eton.’

Liam spread his hands, silently.

‘I can’t believe it,’ muttered Harry. ‘Must have been a sink comp. Bastards. They let you be bullied, they never tried to help – _fuck._ Damn you, Payne, you’re making me agree with Michael Bloody _Gove,_ damn you. All right – but I warn you, if Zayn comes after me for sticking my nose in –’

‘He shan’t. I. I simply want. Look, I don’t want his dad to ignore me, because this is important, simply because I write like a backwards kid in Reception.’

‘All right, all right. You teach me spin, I’ll do your revisions.’

‘Jaysus,’ said Niall, if indistinctly (he’d found the ham-and-cheese). ‘It’s a feckin’ school story.’

________________________


	4. The Orchard: 4

There was just time between the soundcheck and the concert for them to return to the hotel – and for night to have fallen. What they chose to use that time away from the venue for, was up to them, and as long as they stayed put, their security detail never, ever wished to know.

Zayn had been briefly detained by an overmastering need for a crafty post-sunset fag before being, equally craftily, all but smuggled inside. When he did arrive on the storey they’d booked and opened the door to his and Liam’s room, a packet flew at his head, accompanied by a quick ‘Look sharp’. He caught it, thankfully: that might, with luck, mean Liam should _not_ insist on his training for the match against their openers.

‘Oi! I know it’s not date night, but that doesn’t give you the right to chuck things at my head.’

‘It’s Ramadan, love: every night is _date_ night. Room service’ll be here in a few, but you get started now.’

Zayn looked at the packet he’d caught before it could have hit him. Sure enough: dates.

‘Oh.’ He tore into it, munching happily, if stickily. ‘Fnks.’

‘You’re quite welcome.’

Zayn swallowed, and ran his tongue along his teeth: dates were clingier than a drunken Harry Styles. ‘You’re becoming a bloody expert,’ said he, as he sank gratefully onto the bed next Liam.

Liam shrugged. ‘On you, maybe. Even though I _know_ your imam has pointed out you’re technically “travelling” just now. But as you _are_ fasting – I’ll be back in ten.’

There were times, Zayn reflected, beginning his prayers, when Liam was a bit too understanding – and he was too lucky to have him. Mind, there were also times he wished he’d never let Liam meet his imam back in Bradford: they got on too well.

Liam returned just as dinner arrived. Zayn privately considered that, on the road, and in the States particularly, he’d probably now eaten more spring rolls than were consumed in China and more more-or-less ‘Lebanese’ food than had most Lebanese, but you couldn’t really have a cheeseburger for an _iftar_ meal. Least of all when your bandmates, and one in particular, were so solicitous and eager to accommodate you. (He remembered speaking once, if allusively and elliptically – which had ended when the old man had laughed and wagged his finger at him, and told him not to bother, because he perfectly well knew the score, ta ever so, and, Speak honestly, lad – to his imam, at home. ‘Yes,’ he’d been told. ‘I spoke with your Liam. I told him that unless he were contemplating conversion out of a burning conviction that the revelation of the Prophet, on whom be peace, is true, he should remain as he is. Converting for _your_ sake, lad, may be romantic, but it’s a bit too like _šhirk_ for me – bad enough that you should be a _metaphorical_ idol, my boy.’)

‘Pass the spring rolls, mate.’

‘Yeah, all right. Here. Hazza’s going spare, a bit.’

‘What, about the email?’

‘Aye. Thought I should know. His eyes didn’t half bug out when I told him I already knew. Idiot.’

_That was putting it mildly. Zayn thought back to_ that _five hurried minutes: Harry catching him aside, eyes darting about as if Liam might appear from within a speaker or summat, voice urgent._

_‘Liam’s planning to email your father. I don’t_ want _to help him, but….’_

_‘Someone wants to: have you seen his tweets? I love him, but he couldn’t spell “cat” if you gave him the “c” and the “a”, really. He’d think it had twenty ‘t’s at the end.’_

_‘You … you knew.’_

_‘Well, obvs.’_

_‘Oh. I suppose you’ll read it over – but then why can’t_ you _correct his grammar for him?’_

_‘Eh, I’m not reading it. It’s his email.’_

_‘But. Ah. You….’_

_‘Haz, Liam and I have learnt a lot from seeing you and Lou go through things.’_

_‘Er. I’m hearing an unspoken “how not to do it” there.’_

_‘Nooo….’ Zayn was too polite to tell the truth: Yes, exactly, full marks. ‘But we’re very different people, is all.’_

‘Poor Haz. I hope you were kind.’

‘Took pity on him, I did.’

‘Good. Niall’s in a state as well. Feels he’s giving us nowt but bad news and failing to mention that we broke records with views on YouTube and that most people _do_ love us and all.’

‘That’s sharn. I hope you told him he’s daft. We get all the _good_ news – spun, exaggerated, and sanitised, and nothing else, let alone context – from the label and Modest and that lot. ’S why we want Niall’s honesty.’

‘And that is just what I told him. He started in to argue the pitch, but Lou began barracking him for not getting us a Third Anniversary of One Direction _cake,_ and whinging that if Kate had just held off for _one_ day…. When even that wasn’t enough to shut Niall up, Tommo threatened to take his shoes off – Tommo’s, I mean – and “air” his feet. So of course we all scattered, because he’s perfectly capable of just that.’

‘And people are paying _how_ much to watch us be idiots?’

‘Enough that we can afford to be,’ said Liam, wiping his hands on what he could not be broken of the habit of calling a serviette. ‘So we’d best get ready to melt some hearts.’

‘Melt some knickers,’ said Zayn. ‘Explode some ovaries.’

‘Oi, I just _ate…._ ’

________________________

There were – they were told, after – a few protestors: no more than commonly. There was the usual insane North American hysteria (although Niall, after chugging enough water to refloat _Titanic_ during an intermission, pointed out, ‘We’re still not as big as t’e Pope, lads’) and rather more than the usual catcalls, pro and con. There were also new signs in the crowd, shipping Leeroynica, Vercel, Zeronica, Zeeroy, Leecel, and God knew what. Lost though it should have been on the majority of their fans, the famous five (Zayn had first called them that, nominating Liam for Julian … and Louis as George; Niall had objected the most, on the grounds that _he_ came out of it as being Timmy the Dog) made several jokes – carefully offstage – about the #BSE tag, which tag also appeared in some of the Twitter Questions in the show, and ‘mad cows’: Liam, particularly, found the yummy-mummy section of their fanbase, some of whom appeared to have dragged uninterested daughters to the show simply so as to have an excuse for themselves being there, leering avidly, a trifle disturbing – not to say, disturbed. And of course there were plenty of references to the new prince just born: Liam was not nearly as amused as the other four were when it transpired that Louis (and a wary but besotted Harry, who was all too easily swayed by Louis at the best of times) had cooperated with 5SOS to insert a graphic on the screens that shopped a snap of Zayn-as-Veronica onto a shot of the _Torygraph_ ’s ‘It’s a Boy’ front page.

Naturally, this meant that Liam was more determined than ever to beat 5SOS in their private five-a-side Ashes Series – and to drag Louis to the nets and _sweat_ him by way of prep.

________________________

Dear Mr Malik,

I hope you don’t mind my writing to you. I don’t know what you and Zayn have said to each other. It’s none of my business. But sometimes I think neither of you hear –

(‘He must have had Harry aid him with his spelling and grammar. Zayn knows that “neither” takes the singular.’

‘Just read, dear, we needn’t _mark_ it.’)

– what the other is saying.

It’s been an odd three years. You don’t want telling that, I know. I also know, or hope I know, that you know me and your son well enough not to believe some things.

Except for a gag that James Corden talked us into, he really doesn’t go about, or like, wearing women’s clothes, you know. It’s not something he does, or that I’d urge him to do, or that has anything to do with us. I think you know, too, that whatever my sexuality is – and it seems so unimportant, now – I don’t make a habit of camping it, even for a lark, though it was rather funny once in a way.

If Zayn was –

(‘“Were”, I think.’

‘ _Dear…._ ’)

– a girl, really, I’d love him just the same. It would have been easier, for both of us, if one of us was and the other wasn’t. Your son is not exactly gay, you know. And I don’t know that I am. Part of what was so difficult for me was that I spent a lot of time at school being called things I wasn’t and am not and never even thought about being. And being determined never to be, never to make the bad things true. And when I did pull, when I was no longer the weird kid mental about singing and always turned down, there was nothing in that which ever made me to suspect or prepared me for this. But you love who you love, and somehow, maybe by accident, the person I love, the person I’m in love with, happens to have the same sort of body I have and is the same gender as me.

(‘Same _sex,_ for – what do they teach them in these schools? Oh, here, Trish, use _my_ handkerchief, for heaven’s sake.’)

Lucky for us, Zayn’s a much braver person than I am.

There are so many things I want to do for him. Teach him to swim; defend him from all the hurtful things that are hurled at him; laugh with him; get old with him. But one of the things that’s very important to me to do for him is to make him happy, and that includes making him and his family happy with each other. I don’t know how I’d give up all the other things for that, but I will if I must.

Must I?

Best regards,

Liam Payne

(‘Dear, I hope you’ve a hankie of your own.’)

________________________

Liam,

I hardly know how to address this email. You wrote to me very formally – so much so it is you who sound like an allegedly ‘comic’ babu in an old, bad comedy. I appreciate your view; I understand you wish to be taken seriously – and you are, by me. But I think of you, even more than of the others, as a second son, and when you write to me, very much on your dignity, lad, and address me formally as ‘Mr Malik’, I hardly know how to answer. It is the third anniversary of the band; I sometimes wish it weren’t. That is, I miss the days when you were all young lads, innocent and – you must admit it – naïve. Although the years since have meant that Niall’s smile is now straighter, and Louis, now that he no longer combs his fringe into his eyebrows, no longer looks like a singing rodent. Not that this is much consolation for my son’s looking like an old lag just out of stir, nowadays. Probably after being banged up for something to do with bhang. I am sure your parents also have had something to say about that. I worry most that you lads are in a position where it is easy to think yourselves above a law you disagree with; and in a democracy, that is dangerous. Especially a foreign one: if it is a democracy, especially, it is bad manners in a guest to act in this fashion. But enough of that.

You have already taught Zayn to swim. I don’t know why you think otherwise. There is an old song that several British regiments picked up and made a march of, when, for a few brief generations, your people were the political and military masters of the subcontinent. In English, it is called The Wounded Heart. All the memsahibs and colonels’ ladies were, it is said, always asking what the words were: I think they talked amongst themselves and knew, and placed wagers on who could make a subaltern squirm most, torn between pretending ignorance or translating and construing. The best known lines are,

> There is a boy across the river with an arse like a ripe peach /
> 
> But – alas! – I cannot swim.

I think we both know you have taught him to swim.

I am not angry with you. Or with him. What I have tried to tell him is that his choices are his own as long as they do not affect others. And the others whom I fear may face knock-on consequences are his mother, his sisters, and you (and, to a lesser extent, the other lads.). My wife is emailing you also, as I think these points may come better from her, and he may listen to what she has to say.

Please believe that I understand. I would not label you, or my son, or Harry – Louis is in a class of his own, always – in any way; but your acts can be labelled, and will be, by persons much less friendlily disposed towards you than I am. And I think you know well enough that I do not speak only of my community: you are after all in America just now. If it is dangerous for you lads to come to think you are above the law, it is terrifying that you may come to believe you are above risk and danger. If you wish to run that risk, knowing what it is, that is for you to say; but I am obliged to point out that you must not risk others who matter. I am not speaking of management and the label; I am thinking of parents and sisters, yours as well as Zayn’s.

You are always welcome here. So is my son. So is your relationship. This is just as well, because for all your obliging offer of self-sacrifice and self-denial, I know my son, and he is far too stubborn to give you up: any more than I was willing to listen to those who wished me to give up on taking the wife I took. It was Saʿdī who said,

> When he’s awake, there’s mischief in his cheek and in his birthmark /
> 
> And sleeping, you are fettered to the image of him,

and that is how, I know, Zayn thinks of you; well, it was also he who said,

>  The children of Adam are limbs of one body,
> 
> Of the same created essence;
> 
> An injury to one pains all,
> 
> And if you are indifferent to another’s misery,
> 
> You don’t deserve to be called a man.

Finally, I have heard that you are to play a match of sorts against the Australians. Do not let Zayn bat above the middle order, and do not believe him when he tells you he can bowl a wicket-taking doosra. I’ve seen it, and he cannot, and it isn’t. Saqlain Mushtaq he is not.

With much love from both of us,

Y&T (otherwise, apparently, known as ‘Yo, fam’?!)

________________________


	5. The Orchard: 5

‘No, our guests, I insist. Not but you’re getting the short end of the deal, what with Ramadan and all: we can’t very well buy you lunch, can we, only dinner and all.’

‘Really, Geoff, you’ve tickets for the Pavilion –’

‘Our lads have done us proud. It’s not _my_ name and influence did it, because I haven’t any.’

‘– And I doubt our good ladies, let loose upon Debenhams and Marks and Sparks and John Lewis, will pause for a moment at the food court in any case.’

‘They do take shopping as serious as we do take seeing the Australians walloped, I grant you. It still seems to me that you’ll be doing us much the prouder, hosting us for going up to Riverside, day after Eid and all.’

‘Not at all. You and I are the only two band-fathers who know a yorker from a chinaman. Niall’s father eats, breathes, and sleeps football –’ Yasser paused long enough for Geoff to sigh, as he always did, something that sounded very like, ‘ _Bloody_ Rams’ – ‘and, well….’

‘Aye, true enough. I take it kindly, all the same. Now, Karen and I’ll meet you – are the girls coming along for the shops? Good – at Trafford Park Station on the 31st, then….’

________________________

It had come, had they known of it, as no surprise to Zayn and Liam, or indeed to any of the lads, that Geoff and Yasser were planning to go to the matches, or that Geoff and Karen were having the Maliks to stop with them to be nearer to Old Trafford for the Third Test, and were being put up in Bradford for the Fourth, whence Geoff and Yasser might the more readily go to Chester-le-Street’s Riverside Ground. It had not surprised them, frankly, if their dads were contemplating going up to the Oval together for the Fifth Test, for that matter; or indeed booking flights to Oz to join the Barmy Army from November through next January. Nor had it done more than confirm Zayn’s suspicion that, at the end of the day, his dad and Liam’s nattered about their sons like two old matchmaking aunties, really. (Zayn, like most people, was perfectly capable of holding two irreconcilable and mutually-contradictory views at once: in this case, that his father was ready to disown him, at best, over his relationship with Liam, _and_ that Liam’s parents, both, and his own – both – were forever plotting their future together as a couple.) Nor, finally, had it surprised anyone had they known that the senior Messrs Payne and Malik were as solicitous of one another’s customs and courtesies as Zayn and his bandmates were with one another.

It might, however, have been enlightening – not least to Zayn – to have heard another portion of their fathers’ conversation.

‘I don’t wish to see them stoned by Nonconformists – although I suppose, America being America, they don’t have conformity there, as such, at all – for being who they are. And I do not wish them to be the next Fusiliers Rigby.’

‘ _I_ know,’ had said Geoff. ‘But. I don’t think, truly, the home-grown jihadis as attacked that poor soldier lad are representative of your community or your religion, you know.’

‘Of course I know that: I have never mistaken _you_ for Enoch Powell –’

‘All right, hold on, though. I don’t think Westboro Baptist Church – not like any Baptists _I’ve_ ever seen or heard of in Wolvo, from Wood End to Bilston, that lot – nor yet all them in America, are representative o’ Christians of any denomination, or of America. I think it’s useful to management and the label to _pretend_ they are, so as to threaten our lads with backlash if they were to be themselves, is all.’

Yasser had not been so assured of the innate decency of Americans; but he had swiftly appreciated the cogency of Geoff’s point. ‘As to management and the industry,’ had he said, with crisp distaste, ‘nothing – I assure you, _nothing,_ I swear to God– would surprise me less.’

Nevertheless, the solicitude and courtesy his bandmates showed Zayn, mirroring that which their elders showed his family (and contrariwise), was, if grateful, sometimes, Zayn thought, a bit … wearing. Indeed, wearying. It was a constant reminder that he _was_ different; and if they didn’t ‘Other’ him, for which he felt a great sense of affection and obligation, they nonetheless acknowledged that there was a difference. It made him writhe to think that he was being ungrateful – after all, he knew he’d have found it insupportable had they _not_ been supportive – but, at the same time, it was a constant irritant.

It was Niall who took him aside – Niall did that sort of thing, and, being the all-seeing Niall, never let on he was doing so: he’d simply grab him and declare it was ‘Irish cousins time, and you feckin’ Brits can feck aff for a few’ – and let him talk through it. And it was Niall who said, at the end, ‘Aye, I can see t’at. I dunno would it be better if you was Irish – because, sure, I amn’t, after all, from t’e same _country_ as t’e four of you, and it can never be forgot entirely, and comes up times when t’e rest of you don’t even realise it – and Cat’olic. Because _t’at’s_ a difference, sometimes, too, but. And no one sees it.’

‘I. Bugger. Have I not –’

‘No, no, no, t’is isn’t about t’at, and do you not be startin’ in on it at all. What it is, is, You’re not as alone in it as you t’ink you are. And it’s not only me. T’ere’s you and Liam is t’e only ones wit’ t’e same parents, married to one anot’er, as got you; t’ere’s who has sisters and who doesn’t, and who’s t’e youngest sibling and who isn’t…. We’ve all differences t’at sometimes affect us in ways we’re not knowin’ ourselves, and what for would t’e ot’ers know?

‘If I kept Lent as t’e Brot’ers’d’ve had me t’ do – Jaysus. But I can have some sense of it, and of what you’re doin’ for Ramadan. T’e fastin’ and t’e layin’ aff t’e fags from sunup t’ sundown –’ Niall laughed – ‘and maybe t’at’s what t’e pro- _test_ -ors is wavin’ signs for, t’ey’re _supportin’_ you: “God hates fags” and maybe He’s not so happy wit’ cigars eit’er –’

Zayn was surprised into a grin, precisely as Niall had intended.

‘– but I’m tellin’ you I could not manage to refrain all day from lustful t’oughts, whatever. D’ y’ want me to tell Lou and Haz to tone it down wit’ t’eir ongoin’ live gay porn show on t’e bus and in t’e hotels?’

‘Why leave it at that? There’s onstage, too. But, no. I know them too well, and they don’t do a _thing_ for me.’

‘Do t’ey not? Well, do _I_ want to wear more modest clothin’? Because everyone wants a piece o’ t’is, I know.’

Zayn punched him in the arm he was ludicrously flexing. ‘As if, mate.’ He ducked his head, then, though, and let his quiff flop down to obscure his face. Niall could see a faint redness in the tips of his ears, all the same – and hear the bashful wee grin in his voice. ‘But we might want to put Liam in a burqa.’

Niall guffawed. ‘I t’ink we’ve had backlash enough from puttin’ one or t’ ot’er of us in drag, for now.’

________________________

Later that night, after the concert, Zayn talked the matter over, quietly, with Liam. It took only a little time to get his attention: he had been meditating revenge for 5SOS’ latest prank, which – he had to admit: props to those lads – had been a very decent rendition of the old barbershop standard, ‘Lyda Rose’: with the obvious substitution of ‘Georgia’ for ‘Lyda’, naturally. (It had come, had they known of it, as no surprise to Geoff or to Yasser, or indeed to any of the parents, that Liam, particularly, intended to beat 5SOS even more thoroughly than the England XI were pounding Australia in the Ashes.)

‘Love…. I hope I’ve not made too big a deal, an issue, of it. But Niall’s right, I think. Look at Harry. He’s the youngest – save when Niall’s being all of five. So there’s a difference, and we account for that without being, I hope, right knobs about it. And – again, take Harry. He’s no duke’s son or public school boy, but he’s … he’s a lot posher than the rest of us. And it does separate him, a bit, or would if we let it. So are you, in your way. If this – thing – had had never happened: not just being a band, but making it big like this…. You’d have gone on to something great, publishing a graphic novel even while at uni, say – and you _would_ have gone to uni – and who knows how far you’d go. But you’d go. Louis … somehow, he’d’ve found a spotlight. He’d be in rep, maybe, or RADA, and he’d end up in the West End, one way or the other. Harry was born to be a star, and one way or another, he would be. And there’d be no holding Niall.

‘But I’m a working-class lad and proud of it. If I’d never gone out for this, or not gone back the second time, or not made it the second time … I’d be on the factory floor, and trying to take night courses in FE to get on with the fire brigade someday.’ He ignored Zayn’s vocable of protest. ‘And I wouldn’t have known what I’d’ve missed – I wouldn’t’ve known _you,_ and, aye, that’d’ve been terrible. But. All right, maybe race and religion matter, a bit, but not like they do for the Americans: because _we’ve_ always got class to fall back on and obsess over, we do. And for me, a working-class lad with no school skills and all, no academic turn, I think _I’m_ the odd one out in a way. Because I’m the most working-class of us all, and the only one who’d’ve stayed working-class without all this. It’s a difference; it wants acknowledging sometimes; but it’s not a barrier, and I don’t mind that it’s a difference and we know it, hey?’

Zayn kissed him, in a way that mixed gratitude with dissent from Liam’s self-deprecation. But that wasn’t a final answer, he knew. ‘All right. But. It’s not the same sort of difference, is it. For one thing … there’s, well, there’s sexuality.’

Liam managed a look that mingled adoration and reproachful disbelief. They’d got good at that sort of complex, wordless communication, in three years. ‘Do you _know_ any workingmen? I mean _real_ ones, as work with their hands; not shopkeepers and artisans and the like: the brothers on the factory floor. If I’d ever caught on that I’m not so straight as all that after all – and I’m thick, I mightn’t’ve but for you in my life – I’d catch it hot, I would. Until some officious bloke or other thought the “banter” looked bad and took it up with management or the union, and then my shop steward and the bosses would resent having to do something, and resent _me,_ and the lads would blame me, and it’d be worse yet. No, it’s not like a religious issue, I do know that, but….’

‘But you have the courage for it.’

‘Well, that’s a right load of balls, if you mean _you_ don’t. Love…. Coming out isn’t an event. It’s a process. And it takes the time it takes, and it extends only as far as you want it to do.’

There was only one possible response to that. ‘I love you.’

________________________


End file.
